


In a Dream

by toyhto



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Also he really likes Arthur, But he doesn't do anything too bad, Eames is being a bit not nice, M/M, Post-Canon, of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 05:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16257746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: It’s going to be hard to explain, why he followed Arthur into a dream Arthur clearly wasn’t planning to share.





	In a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm new to this ship, but just... they can build and share dreams. So _of course_ I was going to write something in which things get a bit awkward. In a dream.

He should get the fuck out of here, but the moment he sees Arthur he knows he won’t.  
  
It’s been one of his few weaknesses for a long time now. Well, it’s not a _weakness_ exactly. That was an exaggeration. He’s just been thinking a lot about Arthur in situations in which he should’ve been thinking about something else, for example, the job in hand. And the funny thing is, Arthur always notices him thinking about something he’s not supposed to be thinking, not when they’re working, and that always makes Arthur angry at him, and that, in turn, makes him think about Arthur. No one gets angry at him like Arthur. Every time, Arthur tries to stay calm, because let’s be honest, Arthur really wants to be the kind of a person who can always keep cool, keep the emotions out, keep the frustration out, keep from showing how angry he is at Eames. And Arthur fails, every time. Arthur’s face makes all those tiny marvellous expressions revealing that whatever Arthur is saying, really he just wants to punch Eames in the face for being such a prick, or whatever it is that he’s been being at the time.  
  
But he shouldn’t be thinking about that now. He shouldn’t be thinking about Arthur. It’s a bit difficult, though, considering that Arthur’s right there, standing only a few feet away from him, in front of a huge window with a view over the city that looks a lot like New York but with odd details. Also, Arthur’s naked.  
  
Just a moment. Just a few seconds. Then Eames is going to fuck off. Just a few precious seconds to stare at Arthur’s bare ass that he’s never seen in real life.  
  
Then, Arthur turns.  
  
Eames swallows. His mouth is dry. His ears are ringing. But he’s a professional. He can fake being comfortable in deeply discomforting situations. He fixes his eyes on Arthur’s.  
  
He should probably explain why he’s here.  
  
“Look,” he says and then pauses. It’s not only that admittedly it’s going to be hard to explain why he followed Arthur into a dream Arthur clearly wasn’t planning to share. He could say he was curious and that Arthur hadn’t locked the door with as much care as he should have. It was kind of invitingly easy, which means, not impossible, to break into Arthur’s dream.  
  
But the thing that makes him pause isn’t that his explanation for intruding is going to be a bit thin. He pauses, because Arthur doesn’t look surprised at all.  
  
“Hi,” Arthur says, watching Eames as if he’s supposed to be here, with Arthur, with a naked Arthur in a penthouse that looks like it’s built for a billionaire. That’s interesting, actually. It seems Arthur dreams about being filthily rich.  
  
“Hi,” Eames says, because it seems like a logical thing to do. Not that he’s famous of doing logical things, but who cares.  
  
“I was waiting for you,” Arthur says.  
  
Well, that’s interesting. “Why the hell?” Maybe this is a trap. Maybe Arthur’s testing Eames’ ability not to stick his nose into things that aren’t his fucking business. But Arthur’s not that dumb. It’s fairly obvious that Eames’ many abilities don’t include that.  
  
“What do you think?” Arthur asks, frowning slightly, as if he’s actually wondering. Then his frown deepens. “What’re you wearing?”  
  
Eames blinks. Well, Arthur hates his clothes, that much is obvious. But usually Arthur is very capable of telling him what he’s wearing, which usually is, like Arthur puts it after a few glasses of anything with alcohol in it, _shit._ “I don’t know. Clothes?”  
  
“I mean,” Arthur says, “why are you wearing clothes?”  
  
Eames opens his mouth and then closes it.  
  
_Fucking hell._  
  
Well, he has to say _something_. “Why aren’t you?”  
  
Arthur looks at him as if he’s missed something. He clears his throat. One of many things he likes about Arthur is that Arthur is enjoyably predictable in most things, for example what makes him angry at Eames. Once in a while, on the other hand, Arthur manages to surprise Eames by being a cold-headed splendid marvellous thing in situations that would make most men, even most men in their business, panic.  
  
But this is the next level of being surprised about something Arthur has just said. “Excuse me?”  
  
“Are you planning to strip?” Arthur says, still frowning. “I didn’t realise I was thinking about that.”  
  
Is he planning to… “What the fuck is going on, Arthur?”  
  
There’s something unnervingly calculating in the way Arthur looks at him. “You don’t know why you’re here.”  
  
He should say that yes, he does, he’s here because he’s a noisy bastard. But he keeps his mouth shut and shakes his head.  
  
“Well,” Arthur says and fucking _smiles_ , “it’s been a long time.” Suddenly, Arthur’s wearing a black suit that looks even more expensive than the ones Arthur wears above. There’s a bottle of wine and two glasses on a side table that wasn’t there a second ago. “Hi, Eames.”  
  
“Hi, Arthur,” Eames says, his voice coming out tight. He doesn’t like it.  
  
“What’re we celebrating?” Arthur says, pouring wine in the glasses, then glancing at Eames as if he’s figured something out. “Okay, I think this is the evening after the Fischer job. You followed me to the hotel. But it can’t be like this. I wasn’t in a place like this.” Arthur closes his eyes for a few seconds, then takes the glasses and the wine and starts walking towards the door. “Come on.”  
  
Eames follows Arthur. He thinks they’re going to step to the corridor. Arthur’s dreams are always kind of, well, logical. Except this time, it seems, because when he walks through the door, he finds himself in a tiny hotel room. Neat and clean but not very stylish. Not Arthur’s style at all.  
  
“I’m going to say,” Arthur says, closing the door and then walking at Eames, stopping only when they’re a bit too close to each other, “ _what’re you doing here, Eames?_ ”  
  
He stares at Arthur.  
  
Arthur frowns at him, looking almost confused.  
  
He should say something, or Arthur’s going to think that he can’t handle Arthur. “What do you think?”  
  
Arthur grins. Eames has probably never seen Arthur _grin._ He doesn’t have time to think about that, though, because the next thing Arthur does is grab the front of his shirt. “You shouldn’t have come.” There’s something very urgent in Arthur’s voice, something Eames can’t quite place.  
  
Then Arthur pulls him closer and he thinks, _oh._  
  
He didn’t stare at Arthur’s cock a few minutes earlier when Arthur was standing naked in front of him. He might’ve taken a few quick glances but that was all. He hasn’t been thinking about Arthur’s cock almost at all. But now he is, and it’s not his fault, it’s definitely Arthur’s fault for leaning his hips against the low of Eames’ stomach when it’s very clear that Arthur’s hard.  
  
_Fucking hell._  
  
This is…  
  
He should have a long talk with himself. That’s what he should do. _What the fuck were you thinking, Mr. Eames,_ he’d say, probably imitating Arthur’s voice, because that’s what he does sometimes, alright? It’s not like Arthur’s ever going to know. _What the fuck were you thinking, you stupid git? A man, a stressed hard-working man with an illegal and dangerous job and a stick up in his arse locks himself up in the middle of the night, builds a dream for himself and goes in. What for? What for, if not to get off?_  
  
He really should’ve minded his own business this time.  
  
“If you’re going to tell anyone that we did this,” Arthur says, “I’ll kill you.”  
  
“What,” Eames says.  
  
“Because I don’t fuck people I work with,” Arthur says, resting his fingers on the back of Eames’ neck.  
  
“Okay,” Eames says. He kind of thought Arthur wouldn’t know what to do. In bed, that is. Not that he’s been thinking about it a lot, because he hasn’t, only once in a while, and more often when they’re working together and Arthur is just so _there,_ talking to him and frowning at him and all that. But no. He’s not been wondering what it would be like, to fuck Arthur, and he’s not been thinking that Arthur would want him to take the lead, because let’s be honest, Arthur is so uptight it’s just impossible he could handle things in bed. Eames would have to take care of it. And he would. Gladly. For Arthur, whose fingers would be slightly trembling, settling on the back of his neck.  
  
But they aren’t, now. No, Arthur runs his fingers on Eames’ chin, then grabs Eames’ jaw. “You think I’m so in love with you.”  
  
Eames swallows. He _has_ thought of that. He’s thought about what it would be like. But vaguely. And let’s face it, he has a habit of vaguely wondering if people are in love with him.  
  
“You think I can’t keep my hands off of you.” Arthur lets his hand fall and takes a step back, passing a glass of wine to Eames. “But you’re wrong. As always, you’re wrong, Mr. Eames. Here you go.”  
  
“Thank you,” Eames says and takes a sip out of his glass. The wine tastes good, if you happen to like wine.  
  
“At the warehouse,” Arthur says, walking to the bed and sitting down, “you were staring at my ass.”  
  
Eames drinks a bit more wine. He could get used to the taste, probably. “I was?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I knew this would happen. I knew it the moment Cobb suggested you for the job. You’d be just like you always are, obnoxious, irritable, completely unprofessional, and then we’d end up fucking anyway.”  
  
Eames tries not to cough. “Excuse me?”  
  
Arthur leans back, pushing his feet forward on the floor so that it’s even more obvious what’s going on inside his trousers. “You shouldn’t have come.”  
  
That much is true. “I really shouldn’t have. Listen, Arthur, I think this dream is getting a bit private. So maybe I really should…”  
  
“You _shouldn’t_ have,” Arthur says, and there’s something new on his face, like remorse. Or self-loathing. But just a hint. And it’s…  
  
It’s fascinating.  
  
Eames leans closer because the light is crappy.  
  
“You shouldn’t have,” Arthur says in a quiet voice and tucks at the tight fabric of his trousers, “fucking hell, Eames, you shouldn’t have.”  
  
“No,” Eames says gladly, “I shouldn’t have. Arthur, you worry too much.”  
  
“I know,” Arthur says, blinking at him. “It’s just, you’re here now. You came after me even though you shouldn’t have. You _know_ I like you. But you shouldn’t have come.”  
  
“I _know_ you like me?”  
  
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Arthur says. He sounds miserable but it doesn’t look like being miserable is ruining his mood. Eames really should stop staring at his hips, though.  
  
“You can’t stop thinking about what?”  
  
“I think,” Arthur says, emptying his glass of wine. Eames does the same. It’s probably a good idea to follow Arthur’s lead, isn’t it? “I think we aren’t going to do it here, not for the first time.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says and takes a deep breath. He’s going to tell Arthur that they aren’t going to do it at all, not in a dream at least, whatever _it_ is, and frankly said, he’d really like to know. Maybe Arthur wants to fuck him? Or wants to get fucked by him? Or wants to blow him? Or wants to be get blown? Or something more kinky? He doesn’t think Arthur could do kinky but he’s already been surprised tonight.  
  
_Shit._ He’s going to tell Arthur that he’s real. Right now. Before this gets out of hand.  
  
“Arthur,” he says again, “listen. I’m real.”  
  
“Of course you are,” Arthur says, looking at him straight in the eyes.  
  
“No,” he says, “I mean, I’m _real._ I’m not…”  
  
A projection.  
  
Fuck.  
  
He’s not Arthur’s projection for a sex dream, which is what Arthur thinks he is. And Arthur’s not surprised. _At all._ As if every time Arthur builds a sex dream for himself and the dream fills it with a projection for Arthur to… whatever it is that Arthur wants to do, and Eames isn’t going to start wondering about that _again_ … well, the projection is _Eames._ Arthur’s subconscious’ projection for filling up sex fantasies is _Eames._  
  
“Arthur,” he says and takes a step back, “you’re going to get so fucking angry at me when you realise what I’ve done. But I can’t help it. I have to tell you, I’m _real._ I’m _Eames._ ”  
  
“I know,” Arthur says, shaking his head slowly, “I know, I can’t help it. I should stop thinking about you but I can’t. But I don’t want to do it here. We should go somewhere else.”  
  
And there it is again, there’s the self-loathing tone in Arthur’s voice.  
  
“Would you,” Arthur says, perfectly polite, perfectly miserable, “would you please go there, Mr. Eames?” He’s pointing at what must be a bathroom door.  
  
_Okay._ They’re going to have sex in the hotel bathroom. Or of course they _aren’t_ , but that’s clearly what Arthur thinks is going to happen. Eames would’ve never thought Arthur to be a bathroom sex kind of a person, because let’s be honest, bathroom sex is unpractical. It just never works out the way it’s supposed to. Beds, on the other hand, are made for sex. And sleeping. And sex. That’s why they’re so good for it.  
  
But Arthur’s pointing at the bathroom door and Eames thinks, _what the hell._ He’s a bit too deep in this anyway.  
  
He leaves the glass of wine onto the side table and goes to the bathroom.  
  
It’s not a bathroom.  
  
It’s a small room made of concrete. There’re no windows. There’s nothing besides Eames and of course Arthur, who’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall in an odd angle like a ragdoll that’s been dropped. He has a black eye and arms full of bruises and there’s a hint of blood on his lower lip.  
  
Eames clears his throat.  
  
Arthur’s eyes lock into him. “Eames –“  
  
“No,” Eames says. “Just… no. You can’t imagine this.”  
  
“You know what this is,” Arthur says, watching him. “You remember.”  
  
“Of course I remember.” Arthur has put all the details wrong, though. It was one of their first jobs together. It must’ve been six or seven years ago, something like that. It turned bad and in the end, he found Arthur kicked and beaten and having lost his gun. He shot Arthur in the head and woke him up but not before kind of holding his face for a second. Later, he didn’t have a clue why he had done that. Maybe he just lost it for a second. Maybe that’s why he let his thumb follow the red line on Arthur’s cheek as if what was happening was real.  
  
But the thing is, Arthur looks so tiny sometimes. Eames _knows_ he isn’t. He knows Arthur can take it like the rest of them can. Sometimes he just lets himself forget.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, “come on.”  
  
Eames goes to him, kneels onto the floor and takes his face in between his palms. He can feel Arthur’s breaths inside his wrists. They are warm. Arthur is warm. The blood on Arthur’s lower lip is warm. “This is it? This is what you fantasise about? About me holding your face?”  
  
“Not just that,” Arthur says, sounding like he’s in pain, which he probably is. It seems that it’s a part of the fantasy.  
  
“Not just that,” Eames says numbly.  
  
“Just,” Arthur says, “just make me feel good.”  
  
Eames licks his lips. This is bad. This is so fucking bad he can’t even think about it. He’s in Arthur’s sex fantasy that’s about him taking care of Arthur after a particularly bad dream. And he’s not fucked off yet. He’s still here.  
  
He strokes Arthur’s hair that’s damp with sweat. “It’s alright.”  
  
Arthur blinks.  
  
“It’s alright,” Eames says, “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”  
  
“I’m not worrying.”  
  
“Yeah, you are. You’re always worrying, you git.”  
  
“This isn’t the best time to insult me,” Arthur says, but he’s kind of smiling a little.  
  
“So,” Eames says even though he shouldn’t, “what do you want exactly? Should I take you somewhere? Should I take your clothes off? Maybe just undo your zipper? You don’t look like you’re up for much exercise.”  
  
“I’m really not,” Arthur says. “It feels real.”  
  
He’s talking about the beating he took. Eames _knows_ that. “Yeah, it does.”  
  
“I’ve always liked you,” Arthur says, “don’t tell anyone.”  
  
And then there’s the song coming from nowhere. It’s the song Arthur was listening to a few days ago in the car, humming to himself and then getting delightfully angry at himself for doing that.  
  
Something like regret flickers in Arthur’s eyes.  
  
Eames can barely think about how much trouble he is in, when the kick comes.  
  
He wakes up.  
  
Arthur wakes up as well and sees him in a room that was supposed to be locked, connected to the PASIV. It takes him a few seconds to realise what Eames has done. Eames sees him putting pieces together in his mind. It’s adorable and also terrifying as hell.  
  
He waits for Arthur to, well, probably punch him in the face, or yell at him and then punch him in the face.  
  
Instead, Arthur goes pale, gets up so quickly he almost falls onto his face and walks straight out of the room.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s lucky he knows the hotel where Arthur is staying at. He also knows the room number. Or, of course it’s not _luck_ exactly but rather an old habit. When he’s doing a job, he wants to know where he can find the rest of the team if something happens. It’s practical. It’s definitely practical when you’ve stumbled into someone’s sex dream and want to apologise about that.  
  
Although, Arthur shouldn’t have made it so easy for him, so it’s partly Arthur’s fault.  
  
He stands in the corridor for at least a minute before knocking. He stopped at the liquor store at the way and bought a bottle of whiskey, which seemed like a splendid idea at the time. Now he’s a bit worried that maybe Arthur will think that Eames is trying to get him drunk, so he forgets to be pissed about the whole incident, which is, as it happens, exactly what Eames is trying to do. Maybe he should’ve bought Arthur flowers instead. God, that would be awful, standing on the doorway, holding flowers. He’s certain that Arthur likes flowers, though.  
  
He almost drops the bag that holds the whiskey, when Arthur opens the door slightly.  
  
“Hi,” he says.  
  
Arthur is standing partly behind the door. He’s certainly holding a gun but it seems improbable that he would shoot at Eames over something like this. It was just a dream, after all. Eames fixes his gaze onto Arthur’s face and tries to look as charming as he can, only he gets a bit distracted. Arthur looks more tired than angry. Okay, pretty damn angry, but even more tired.  
  
“Can I come in?” Eames asks. If Arthur’s going to punch him in the face, it’s better not to happen at the fucking doorway.  
  
Arthur steps aside and lets him in. It’s a nice room. He walks to the window and turns, and Arthur locks the door, looking quite determinant about it, then places the gun on the nearest table.  
  
“What’re you doing here, Eames?” Arthur asks, clearly trying to sound snappy and frustrated like he always does. But it doesn’t come out quite right.  
  
“I wanted to tell you I’m sorry,” Eames says and clears his throat, “and that you should probably be a bit more careful about your private dreams in the future. Not that I mind. But, still.”  
  
Arthur frowns at him, his tiny face making all those wrinkles. It’s delightful. Also, it’s not what he should be thinking about now.  
  
“I was being careful,” Arthur says. “You broke into the room.”  
  
“It was barely locked.”  
  
“You picked three locks to get in.”  
  
“They weren’t very hard to pick.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, then turns to stare at the wall. He sounds… he sounds like he’s given up, like he can’t bother to be properly angry at Eames, can’t bother to tell Eames what a goddamn idiot he is. Shit. Arthur should, though, because Eames _is_ an idiot and he wants to hear it. Just this once. Just this once he actually did something Arthur should be angry about, and _now_ is the time Arthur goes all soft on him.  
  
“Well, I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step at Arthur. “I’m sorry for interrupting your dream. You look like you might’ve needed it.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, glancing at him, “you should leave.”  
  
“And I’m not saying that you couldn’t get laid for real,” Eames says, his voice getting a bit dry and hasty, but he can’t just _leave_ or they’ll never settle this, Arthur will never forgive him and get back to his old snappy self, “because you definitely could. You’re a good-looking lad, Arthur. With nice clothes. Of course you’re a bit uptight, but some people like that. Some men. You wouldn’t fuck a woman, would you?”  
  
“Fucking hell,” Arthur says, pointing at the door, “would you just –“  
  
“I bet not,” Eames says, walking to Arthur’s bed and sitting down. “But I don’t mind either way. Listen, I brought you something. Whiskey. I brought you whiskey. I thought about flowers, too. You like flowers, right?”  
  
Now Arthur just stares at him.  
  
“Great,” he says, trying to look like he’s comfortable sitting on Arthur’s bed. He should probably spread his knees a little. It’ll make him look comfortable. “Do you have glasses for the whiskey?”  
  
“You can’t be serious.”  
  
“No, no,” he says quickly, “I can drink straight from the bottle. But can you?”  
  
Arthur stares at him for a few seconds and then, thank God, turns and walks to the tiny cupboard, takes out two glasses and passes one to Eames. Their fingers brush against each other. Just lightly. But Eames tries not to dwell on that. He pours whiskey in the glasses and then takes a sip of his own. It’s good. And Arthur hasn’t backed away, only stands beside the bed so close that Eames could probably kick him in the knee. Not that he would. But he could. Maybe Arthur feels better like this, when Eames is sitting and Arthur’s looming over him. As if Arthur’s not the taller one anyway.  
  
Eames drinks a bit more of his whiskey.  
  
“So,” Arthur says, sounding mortified and as if he’s trying to hide it so hard.  
  
“So,” Eames says. “That was interesting.”  
  
“We could just forget it,” Arthur says. Now he sounds desperate. “I’ll never mention it again if you don’t. I’ll never bring it up. It won’t affect our work. And we don’t need to talk about it.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, “you were having a sex dream about me.”  
  
“Oh, fucking hell,” Arthur says and steps back.  
  
“And let me just say, it didn’t seem like you were doing it for the first time.”  
  
Arthur empties his glass quite effortlessly. Eames tries not to stare at his throat when he swallows. Then he sets the glass aside and pushes the heels of his hands against his closed eyes.  
  
“I don’t mind,” Eames says, “just so that you know.”  
  
“You don’t mind? How can you not fucking –“  
  
“I don’t. I really don’t. I’m pretty sure we all have done a few stupid things in a dream.”  
  
“It wasn’t just stupid,” Arthur says in a small voice. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”  
  
“Seen what?”  
  
Arthur lets his arms drops onto his sides and glares at Eames.  
  
“Because I especially liked the first one,” Eames says, his voice as light as he can make it with Arthur staring at him like that, “with you standing naked in your posh dream apartment.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake –“  
  
“You look nice,” Eames cuts in, “really nice, no need to worry about that. Not that I was looking. But you were _right there._ And the second one, in the hotel room after the Fischer job, well, I wouldn’t have minded if things had gone like that. But the last one…”  
  
“Just shut up,” Arthur says, walking to the table and sitting down on a chair that creaks. He grabs his knees and leans forward, his shoulders bent and his mouth tight.  
  
“I kind of knew I should’ve fucked off.” Eames tries to say it gently, because Arthur looks like he’s going to fucking crumble or something. “Or, obviously I _knew_ it right in the beginning. But I kept getting distracted. You were very distracting. So, it took me a while to figure out what was up with you grabbing my shirt and dragging me to hotel rooms and all that. But what I was saying was that I knew I should’ve left but it was just so… I remember that job, too. You had been a huge pain in the ass the whole time. Probably you were trying to prove you could do the job. But then they got you in a dream and you looked just…”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, “stop.”  
  
“Fragile,” Eames says, pointing a finger at him, ”that’s it, you looked like you wanted me to tell you that you’re alright, and that’s just… coming from a self-satisfied prick as yourself…”  
  
“I can’t…” Arthur says and stands up, walks to the window and just stays there.  
  
“Come on, Arthur,” Eames says. “Come on. I’m sorry.”  
  
“ _I’m_ sorry,” Arthur says to the window. “Fucking hell, I shouldn’t have… I know I shouldn’t have, it’s just my subconscious, and sometimes it helps just to go along with it, it helps me relax, I’m not very good at…”  
  
“Relaxing. I know. Arthur, your subconscious makes projections of _me._ For your sex dreams.”  
  
From where Eames is sitting on the bed, he can see Arthur’s jaw tighten and his throat move when he swallows.  
  
“If I didn’t know that you’re a hard-boiled man with no soft spot for anything except money, I’d say you have a thing for me.”  
  
Arthur seems to be frowning fiercely at his own reflection on the window.  
  
“Arthur, do you have a thing for me?”  
  
“It’s not…” Arthur says and takes a deep breath. “I wasn’t… it’s just in the dreams.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
Arthur glances at him, then turns to really look at him. He lets the disappointment linger on his face, just a little so that Arthur can catch it if he really wants to.  
  
Arthur pulls his shoulders back and nods.  
  
Oh, what the fuck then.  
  
“Arthur, let me just tell you that you’re the most infuriating stubborn prick in our business.”  
  
“Well, thank you,” Arthur says, having the nerve to sound off-balance, the bastard.  
  
“You just pulled me into your dream with you,” Eames says, and he _knows_ he’s being a bit unfair here, but he’s a pissed now, because Arthur doesn’t have guts to fucking admit that he has a thing for Eames, “you dragged me into your sex dream, into that shitty job we did all those years ago when you were barely an adult and I wasn’t half as handsome as I’m now, and you were lying kicked and bruised and fucking afraid in that cellar when I found you, and you know, I held your face, I’d have fucking hold your hand if you had wanted me to, I asked you what you want, I would’ve jerked you off or blown you or whatever, and I know you didn’t want _me_ , just your shitty projection of me, and I’ll tell you, it _can’t_ be as good as the real thing, the projection, it can’t. Because I would’ve… you could’ve asked for fucking _anything._ ”  
  
And that’s about when he realises he might’ve said a bit too much.  
  
Arthur walks to him, takes the bottle of whiskey from where Eames is holding it in his lap, and goes to fill his glass. He watches as Arthur drinks the whiskey and then very slowly turns to face him.  
  
“Anything?”  
  
“Anything,” he says and tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite work out like he meant it to.  
  
“Like,” Arthur says slowly, “like, I could’ve asked anything in a dream. And you’d have done it. To me. In a dream.”  
  
“Or,” Eames says equally slowly, “I’m here, right now, am I not?”  
  
“But we aren’t in a dream.”  
  
“No, we aren’t.”  
  
“This is for real.”  
  
“Yeah,” he says and clears his throat, “yeah, it kind of is.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, but there’s something new in his voice, “we’re in a middle of a job.”  
  
“I don’t mind,” Eames says and realises immediately that it was a bad idea.  
  
“You don’t mind that we’re in a middle of a job? Eames, your incapability to take jobs seriously is just –“  
  
“Shut up,” he says, “just shut up, Arthur. I meant that you looked really stressed earlier. You look really stressed _now._ That’s why you were trying to have sex with me in a dream, right? You’re so stressed about this job. Maybe, and I’m saying this because I take this job very seriously, like I take every job I do with you, maybe we should try to get you to relax a little.”  
  
Arthur looks like he doesn’t believe a word Eames is saying.  
  
“Okay,” Eames says, “I’ll just start by taking my clothes off. They were getting a bit annoying, anyway. Trousers especially. And tell me to stop if you like. I’ll stop. I swear. Right away.”  
  
Of course Arthur’s going to tell him to stop.  
  
He starts unbuttoning his shirt and ends up tearing a button off. Fucking hell. He’s getting clumsy. Must be because he’s already half-hard in his pants, or possibly because he’s kind of nervous as well. Arthur doesn’t say a word, only watches his hands as he manages the rest of the buttons quite nicely and then pulls the shirt off his shoulders. Then Arthur’s eyes flicker on the tattoos in Eames’ chest and arms. Arthur snorts.  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
Arthur shuts up, which is unnerving as hell. Well, there’s no way to go but forward.  
  
Eames undoes his zipper and pushes his trousers to his knees. There’s a condemning wet patch on the fabric of his pants. Arthur will notice it right away, but what can he do, right? Nothing. There’s nothing he can do. He kicks the trousers onto the floor and then pushes his thumbs under the waistband of his pants.  
  
“Look,” Eames says, “I’m making a fool out of myself, stripping for you. So, there’s no reason for you to feel bad about those sex dreams. Because I followed you to your hotel room and brought whiskey and started talking about how I’d do anything for you and then stripped. If one of us is a presumptuous idiot, it’s clearly me.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says. His voice is a bit rough. _Oh, God._  
  
“Yeah, well,” Eames says and takes his pants off. He’s naked now, just like Arthur was in the penthouse, in the dream. Now, Arthur’s breathing quite heavily.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, “what do you want?”  
  
Eames clears his throat. Well, he’s sitting on Arthur’s hotel bed, naked, pretty hard. He’d say it’s probably fairly obvious what he wants, broadly speaking. But Arthur’s never been good at taking hints. “What do I want?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, and then, “anything.”  
  
_Okay._ “Anything?”  
  
Arthur nods.  
  
“I’m not picky,” Eames says, trying to sound casual and failing, but Arthur doesn’t seem to mind, only takes a step towards the bed and just hovers there, fucking bastard, staring at Eames who’s naked and dripping. Oh, this is _good._ “I’m not picky at all. A hand job would be very nice. If you like. Or I can fuck you if that’s your cup of tea. Or the other way round. I’d say maybe the other way round, considering how you handled me in the dream. At first. I don’t know. In the end you seemed like you might’ve wanted, I don’t know. A nice blowjob. A nice, gentle blowjob.”  
  
“I think,” Arthur says, “we just have to start with something.”  
  
He watches as Arthur comes closer, stops only when his knee brushes against Eames’. Arthur’s probably going to undress now. _Yes. Fuck yes._ Eames is going to get to watch.  
  
“Lie back,” Arthur says, nodding towards the mattress.  
  
Eames swallows and lies back. It’s a bit odd. He’s naked, after all. All the lights are on. And Arthur climbs onto the bed after him, grabs Eames’ knees and pushes them apart, sets himself in between Eames’ thighs, still all dressed up in his fancy suit. Oh, _fucking hell._  
  
“Alright?” Arthur says.  
  
“Alright,” Eames says and closes his eyes but just for a second, because he really can’t stop watching Arthur.  
  
Arthur touches him as if he’s not quite certain Eames is real. Which is understandable, all things considered. Arthur used to dream about this. Arthur used to dream about _this_ , about having Eames lying naked on the hotel bed, Arthur sitting in between his spread knees, taking Eames in his hand and slowly, slowly starting to break him into fucking pieces. Surely Arthur used to dream about this, because why else Arthur would be doing it so fucking _slowly?_ As if he’s teasing, but no, he looks intent, he looks like he has set his mind on something and is going to do it, like he always does when they’re working and there’s something slightly impossible that simply must be done. Maybe Eames is the impossible thing now. Fuck that’s good. Fuck this is good. Fuck that he’s going to come into Arthur’s hand, soon, _soon,_ and he’s going to moan, probably, and Arthur’s fine suit is going to get dirty, and Arthur’s hand of course, Arthur’s wrist, all of Arthur, oh _fuck_ this is a bit too much -  
  
“Steady,” Arthur says, the bastard, placing his other hand on Eames’ belly. “Don’t rush.”  
  
“Don’t you fucking tell me not to –“  
  
Arthur strokes him hard and fast. He tries to breathe.  
  
“Oh,” he says when Arthur slows down again, not quite what he was planning to say but, well. “ _Oh._ ”  
  
“You don’t need to talk.”  
  
“Don’t you like my voice?”  
  
Oh. Arthur fucking _does._ He can see it in the way Arthur frowns.  
  
“Arthur,” he says, “Arthur, I’m going to tell you something.”  
  
“Just shut up,” Arthur says, looking all concentrated on the task of bringing Eames off. He’s so serious, all the time. The tiny serious man in his suit, always frowning. _Goddamn._  
  
“I’m going to tell you a secret,” Eames says. “I’ve always liked you.”  
  
Arthur’s rhythm breaks a little.  
  
“Right from the beginning.”  
  
“No, you haven’t,” Arthur says. He looks like he’s considering it.  
  
“Oh, but I have.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Eames laughs and then stops laughing, because Arthur’s fingers tighten on him. “You idiot,” he says when he can breathe again. “Of course I fucking like you. You’re brilliant.”  
  
He can see Arthur biting his lip. The fucking bastard doesn’t believe him.  
  
“You’re _brilliant_ , Arthur. You always take everything so seriously. It’s _delightful._ And you get angry so easily. And you’re so bad at hiding whatever you’re thinking about. And so bad at having fun. And so bad with people sometimes. You always expect them to be like you when no one is like you, _no one._ Trust me, I’ve met a lot of people. You’re one of a kind. And you’re so _good._ And then, _this._ ”  
  
Arthur looks like he wants _so badly_ to know if Eames is lying. _I’m not lying_ , Eames thinks. He can’t say it aloud, though, because then Arthur would never believe him.  
  
“And your ass,” he says. Arthur will believe that. “I like your ass.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Fuck yeah,” he says. “I’m not going to last for long, Arthur. Not if you keep doing that.”  
  
“Then don’t,” Arthur says. “What about my ass?”  
  
“I like it,” Eames says, trying to breathe, trying to fucking hold on but there’s no way he can do it. “I _like_ it.”  
  
Arthur nods seriously.  
  
Oh fucking -  
  
“Arthur,” he says, “we should go on a date.”  
  
Then he comes.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s nice, the way Arthur falls asleep right after Eames blows him. It’s almost like he actually trusts Eames. Or maybe he’s just so tired, the poor idiot. Eames gets out of the bed as quietly as he can, goes to the bathroom and drinks a glass of water. It rinses most of Arthur’s taste from his mouth, but not all. Good. Then he takes a quick shower, dries himself in a nice white towel and goes back to Arthur, who’s now snoring.  
  
Fucking hell, how much he likes Arthur.  
  
When he settles back onto the mattress, the bed creaks and Arthur shifts. _Shit._ Eames watches as Arthur slowly opens his eyes and sees him. He tries his nicest smile.  
  
“Sorry,” Arthur says, trying to sit up, “I didn’t mean to –“  
  
“Can I stay for a night?”  
  
Arthur blinks. “Why?”  
  
“Because I like you and I want to sleep in the same bed with you.”  
  
He can see Arthur swallow. “ _Why?_ ”  
  
“I don’t know,” he says, “maybe I’m just stupid that way.”  
  
“You said something about going on a date,” Arthur says slowly, “but I thought that was just…”  
  
“What I always say when I come? It’s not, you idiot. I meant it.”  
  
“You want to go on a date with me.”  
  
“Why not? Think about it. You’re going to frown constantly and I get to watch.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says. It sounds like a warning.  
  
“I’m not joking.” He _knows_ Arthur can’t tell the difference because let’s face it, the poor bastard doesn’t have much of a sense of humour. But just this once, Arthur seems to get it.  
  
“You aren’t joking,” Arthur says, as if it’s the eighth wonder in the world, or however many there are.  
  
“No,” Eames says, “I’m not. I want to sleep in your bed and I want us to go on a date.”  
  
“I thought this was just..” Arthur says, as if he thought it was a pity fuck, or Eames saying he’s sorry.  
  
“I know what you thought. You’re wrong, as you often are.”  
  
“Eames.”  
  
“Arthur.” _Fuck_ that he likes calling Arthur _Arthur._ And he likes the way Arthur’s eyes fall onto his mouth, just for a second.  
  
“Don’t fuck with me.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Because,” Arthur takes a deep breath, “I have, you know, soft spots.”  
  
Eames tries not to laugh. “Well, I _know._ ”  
  
“For you.”  
  
Okay. _Okay_. This is _a lot._ “I know, Arthur.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Good,” he says and then raises his hand and rests his fingers on Arthur’s right shoulder, slowly, carefully so that Arthur doesn’t spook. “Do you mind if I kiss you?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, letting out the tiniest smile, “I don’t think I do.”  
  
Well, what the fuck then.

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi to me on [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)!


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